


A Morning Routine

by Laura_Maz



Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: M/M, One grumpy spymaster, domestic life, domestic troubles, learning to live together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-10
Updated: 2020-09-10
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:01:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26391583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laura_Maz/pseuds/Laura_Maz
Summary: Spymaster Shaw and Captain Fairwind have been sharing Shaw's flat for some time and in order to live happily together they had to learn how to survive by sharing spaces. But things never go smoothly, do they?
Relationships: Flynn Fairwind/Mathias Shaw
Comments: 9
Kudos: 39





	A Morning Routine

Master Mathias Shaw, head of SI:7, the Alliance Spymaster, woke up to a particularly nasty sneeze in the cold morning of the early autumn of Stormwind. With a shiver, he pulled himself up to a sitting position, his naked body covered only by a thin layer of bedsheets that glided to pool down on his lap.

After a moment of reorientation he wondered why he was so cold and, after a good look around, he perked a brow, the first splinter of annoyance setting into his brain. The quilt, _his_ quilt, lay on the ground, on the other side of his  
 _their_  
bed. He hugged himself, feeling goosebumps on his arms and frowning at the quilt with disdain.

His frown deepened when he cast a glance at the window – which had remained half open all night, making the temperature drastically drop in the flat – his flat, now shared with Captain Flynn Fairwind of Kul Tiras.

Shaw muttered a curse and stood up, grabbed the quilt and lay it on the bed before tip toeing on the cold floor to reach out for the window and close it shut, grumpily eyeing the cloudy morning while a thin rain was dripping over the city.

Since Flynn had moved into his flat from his room at the keep, after recovering from his nasty cold, his life had been much different, with (a lot of) good perks and (some) bad ones, and by far one of the worst ones was that the situation there had got to be a real security nightmare.

The big man, like any other Kul Tiran, wasn't accustomed to the relative warmth of the region and he had constantly whined to have the window open at night because “I feel like I'm suffocating, Mattie, I can't help it”; finally, Mathias had yielded to the security breach and Flynn, happier, had stopped complaining.

The nights were colder due to the season, but the seaman could challenge every notion of “bed warmer” ever given to a man, since he was always warm, both night and day, to the point that Mathias had to keep the light autumnal quilt at the bottom of the bed if he wanted to sleep at a decent temperature.

Flynn was clingy, always seeking contact, even in his sleep, and at first that had caused some friction between them, but this bad perk of the steady presence of the Kul Tiran in his bed had slowly turned to be quite a good one, as soon as Mathias had grown accustomed to being held all night long.

Now, however, the spymaster was alone in the cold flat, and another sneeze caught him. Mildly vexed, he rubbed his arms and went to the wardrobe, opening it and finding only big, loose swashbuckler shirts hanging from the rail. The frown on his brow deepened as he rummaged in both sides of the small piece of furniture, his own and the one he had reserved for Flynn. In the end, quite annoyed, he ripped one of Flynn's shirts from the hanger and donned it like a short tunic, trying to find a small amount of comfort and warmth, secretly missing his lover’s embrace.

The Captain had left very early in the morning to catch the portal to Boralus, having business there. Mathias had been so tired that he hadn't even heard the man get up and ready, and he was somewhat displeased about that, even though he knew that Flynn would be back in the evening.   
Already bothered and still cold, he went to the toilet to get cleaned and shaven and lo', his favourite razor was nowhere to be found. He checked every nook of the small bathroom and found only Flynn's razors, quite average tools in his expert opinion, clumsy things made in Kul Tiras and very different from his, made in Ironforge with a peculiar craftsmanship.

Trying to smite down his skyrocketing anger, he fumbled with the soap basket and he found out that Flynn had taken the shaving powder with himself, too. Cursing aloud, he set out of the bathroom to retrieve some clear oil in the nightstand, blushing furiously, just to use it to prevent the reddening of his skin. He oiled his face blindly, trying not to think about the night before – the last time that oil had been used - and then lifted the razor, turning to face the mirror.

In disbelief, he noticed that he could see only the top of his head, his eyes and his moustache in it. Flynn had lifted the small mirror of the toilet by shortening the thin rope that held it in place, probably just to comb and braid his long locks. Mathias glared at his reflection, eyes narrowed with what was bordering into a fit of rage. With angry hands, he lowered the mirror to the right height.

In that moment, the presence of the Kul Tiran in his flat seemed to him more a plague than a joy and while shaving he tried to calm himself by thinking of the glorious scolding the ex-pirate would get when back from Boralus. In his righteous vexation, he forgot for a moment he wasn't using his razor, and the clumsier tool opened a thin cut on the line of his jaw while he was clearing the spot against the growth. With a loud curse he tried to stagnate the thin line of blood that had just begun to trickle in the water basin with a towel. He drew in a long breath, counting to six before releasing it.

It took him more than the usual to finish his ablution, and by the time he got out of the bathroom, the sun was already in the sky. He hurried to dress up, dreading to be late: first his smallclothes and vest and then the long, thin, warm socks he had delivered every two months from Pandaria.

To put them on, he let himself fall on the chair in his room, covered with Flynn's clothes (and even that detail managed to increase his annoyance), and he jumped up with a startled yelp, brushing his toned ass. He turned to see what had punctured him and he saw the Kul Tiran's sewing kit, open, on the ground next to the chair, and the vicious needles prickling out of the pincushion on it, nearly hidden by one of the Captain’s shirts.

He put everything back into the right basket and closed it with a swear, and resumed his dressing up, the cup of his annoyance full to the brim. Once ready – flawless, like always – he went downstairs to prepare his coffee and eat a morsel and he found out the kitchen had been ravaged. Flynn had bought a dozen buns the previous evening “for breakfast!” and now only two were staring earnestly at Mathias from the table.

With a sigh, he went to the stove and, after a glance, he slammed his hand on the hob in frustration. The powder was only a pinch, completely useless to make a decent coffee. He opened up the kitchen cabinet in the vain hope to find some leftovers of coffee and even his trained reaction time wasn’t good enough to allow him to dodge the shower of pots and lids left in a precarious balance by the Captain the previous evening. He jumped away, bewildered and quite angry now. He had no time to put everything back to their places and the utter mess the kitchen was now only increased his rage.

With a snarl, he grabbed the buns and went to the door. At eye level, he noticed a small note had been tucked between door and doorpost. He pulled it out and opened it, detecting Flynn's round, untrained hand.

_“Dearest Mathias,  
your shirts are on the drying rack on the terrace – remember to drag them down in case of rain!  
I took the open shaving powder, but there is a new box in my side of the wardrobe, in the smallclothes drawer. Oh, I also took your razor with myself, I hope this doesn’t bother you. Tidemother knows if I will get one myself, it's like shaving with a swan feather. Sorry for the buns, but I left you money for the breakfast on the table. See you this evening – I should be home by the seventh bell.  
Yours lovingly  
Flynn”_

Mathias closed his eyes for a moment, pocketing the note. Flynn was going to be home by the seventh bell... and he would be there as well, to have his reckoning. He wasn't used to bad starts in general, but this, _this_...!

**

Mathias managed to get out of the SI:7 headquarters quite late due to a mess of delays and issues and he walked quickly down the dark roads, like a storm cloud waiting to let out its rage in a magnificent downpour. He stomped up the stairs and unlocked the door, entering the flat like a gust of tempest.

A tidy kitchen and a nice smell welcomed him, and Flynn, all domestic in his simple shirt and trousers and bare feet, turned away from the stove with such an enamoured smile that Mathias had to stop a moment to gather himself from the sudden leap of his heart. In a heartbeat, he found himself in the Kul Tiran's warm arms, pressed against his chest.

“Oh, honey, you're back! One day and I already missed you. Big trouble when I'll be back on the deck of the Arva”, Flynn sighed in his ear.

Mathias just squeezed him hard, closing his eyes, forgetting all his harsh words and the vexation that had made him snappy all day long. The two men cradled each other for a long moment, before Flynn pulled away from the embrace, looking at Mathias with some disappointment in his blue eyes.

“Yet, you have forgotten to put the drying rack back inside and I had to wash your shirts again. I need a bit of cooperation here, mate!”

Incredulous, Mathias’s eyes went wide and he looked at his lover, feeling a yell of outrage flaring up his throat. He opened his mouth to let out all his pent-up frustration but before he could utter a syllable, Flynn, wisely, shut him up with a kiss.

**Author's Note:**

> This is something silly written in a moment of illness, inspired by a ghost story of M.R. James, "The Malice of Inanimate Objects", and by some true life happenings. It's hard to learn how to share in older years because of ingrained habits that in the end become a comfort. Anyway, when one's kicked out of their comfort zone by someone like Flynn, one can pardon them, can't they?


End file.
